"Oh, dear I wish Jerry would come home I want to see her I've always missed her terribly during vacations, but this summer I've missed her more than ever. I'm simply starved for a sight of her dear jolly face Here it is, the twenty-fourth of August, and no Jerry Jeremiah Geraldine Macy " Marjorie Dean had addressed this little series of wistful remarks to no one in particular. She stood at one of the long French windows of the living room, her nose flattened against the pane, little-girl fashion, watching a very wet outdoors. All morning, the rain had been beating down with a sullen persistency which Marjorie found distinctly disheartening. She was as near to having a case of the blues as was possible to one of her care-free, buoyant nature. Wet weather did not often interfere with her happiness. Given her particular girl friends within telephone call and she could discount a rainy day. Today she was without that source of entertainment and consolation. None of her chums had returned to Sanford from their summer outings. Susan Atwell, Irma Linton, Muriel Harding, Constance Stevens, Jerry Macy-all were missing from the town into which Marjorie had come, a stranger, but of which she now was, to use her own expression, "a regular citizen." Marjorie's thoughts were dwelling on her absent schoolmates as she pensively watched the rain. She wondered if, wherever they were, they were penned in by the rain too. It seemed rather queer to her that she should be the only one of the sextette of girls, who had founded the Lookout Club, to be spending the summer in Sanford. She was not a real Sanfordite by birth. With the exception of Constance Stevens, the others claimed Sanford as their native town.